Vires acquirit eundo : It gains strength by going (or as it goes)
by JackieOh
Summary: Stiles is starting to think he has a type: smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martins. Ivy is adjusting to the move as well as she can, though her cousin Lydia isn't exactly welcoming. Scott wants to keep everyone safe, even if that means teaming up with unlikely allies. Lydia just wants her old life back. Full summary inside. Eventual Stiles/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Stiles is starting to think he has a type: smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martins.

Ivy is adjusting to the move as well as she can, though her cousin Lydia isn't exactly welcoming.

Scott just wants to keep everyone safe, even if that means teaming up with unlikely allies.

Allison's struggling to reform her family's archaic beliefs, especially in light of recent attacks.

Lydia wants her old life back – before werewolves and banshees and her mother's financial problems.

Will these teens make it out of Beacon Hills alive? Only time will tell.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 _And So It Begins…_

Stiles is starting to think he has a type. Smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martin women. The thought strikes him when Ivy stumbles into a pack meeting at Lydia's (and hers now, too) house; wearing a short skirt and a smile. Her pink lipstick is smudged around her cupid's bow – probably from Conner's goodnight kiss – and Stiles wants to punch someone. Preferably himself. In the face. Because _seriously_? He'd only just scrapped the five-year plan to make Lydia fall in love with him like, two months ago and now he has the hots for her _cousin_? Her very cute, very _taken_ cousin? What the hell, self? What. The. Hell.

His only saving grace is that Lydia hasn't noticed. Stiles tries not to think about how, even now, his emotions aren't even a blip on Lydia's radar – and half of the time he succeeds. Which is improvement but still totally pathetic. Scott knows though, which means so does Allison. Probably the other wolves too since they can probably like, smell it or something. Stiles would be embarrassed if he wasn't sitting on a goldmine of blackmail since he walked in on what was quite possibly the early stages of a threesome between Boyd, Erica, and Isaac. They can suck it.

Stiles only half-listens to Scott's patented Good Work Everyone speech, letting his attention wander to Ivy – who is trying to fly under the radar, from the looks of it. She toes of her shoes and tucks them into a corner of the mudroom, and hangs her rain splattered coat and purse on the rack beside the door. She still has a smile on her face as she heads to the kitchen and every so often her fingers brush against her lips as her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink.

"Someone had a good date."

It seems Stiles wasn't the only one to notice Ivy's behavior. Allison is fixing the girl with a bright, bright smile – a stark contrast against Lydia's deep scowl. Ivy does not let her eyes linger on Lydia too long though, because Allison is the closest thing Ivy has to a friend in this town and it _was_ a good date.

"Yea," Ivy says. She's being quiet, almost bashful, and pterodactyls assault Stiles' stomach because of it. "We went to check out the new art installation downtown, and there were these little finger sandwiches that were so cute I almost didn't want to eat them."

She did of course, and stopped counting after the eighth one. Conner had been impressed.

The girls converse for a few minutes – Erica interjecting whenever the opportunity for an innuendo arose – until Lydia interrupts.

"Ivy," she says. "A minute?"

Stiles watch as the Martin girls leave the room before turning to Scott. "What're they saying?"

"Dude," Scott says. "I'm not going to eavesdrop for you."

"I will." Isaac grins, ignores his alpha's disapproving stare, and focuses on the voices coming from the kitchen.

"Lydia?" Ivy asks.

Lydia has spent the past two months ignoring Ivy whenever their mothers weren't around, so her interest is… concerning. Had Ivy overstepped a boundary by talking to her friends? Whenever Lydia's clique came over they acted – well, _weird_. Secretive and uneasy. Like they were afraid she'd overhear. More often than not Ivy made herself scarce, but there'd been no avoiding them tonight.

"Break up with Conner."

Lydia's demand is so unexpected; Ivy takes a moment to respond. "Excuse me?"

"Break up with Conner," Lydia says, slower this time.

She crosses her arms and settles her weight on one hip, fixing Ivy with a stare that makes her feel stupid.

Ivy hates feeling stupid.

"Do you like him or something?"

"As if I'd date some second-string nobody. _Please_. Just -" Lydia takes a deep breath, counts back from ten, and says: "You can't date him."

Ivy prides herself on being level headed. She did not throw tantrums as a child, or when her father died, or when her entire life was uprooted. Ivy Martin-Sinclair keeps her emotions under lock and key until another, more appropriate time arises. But now, at her cousin's demand – she _loses_ it. Because she likes Conner, and Lydia hasn't said one nice thing to her since moving in, and it wasn't like Ivy wanted to come to this stupid town any more than Lydia wanted her to, okay? So Lydia can just _shove off_.

So that's exactly what she says, and it's a toss-up as to who's more surprised: Lydia, Isaac, or Ivy.

"She just told Lydia off," is what Isaac says, and if there's awe in his voice no one comments on it. Because Lydia can be _scary_ , okay? It is (apparently) a Martin trait.

Erica's smile is stretched so wide her face might split.

"Good for her," the shewolf praises. "Lydia's been a real bitch lately."

"Like you have room to talk," Stiles rebukes. He can't help but wonder how much his defense of Lydia is genuine or out of habit.

Lydia, meanwhile, can't believe her little cousin decides to grow a backbone over _Conner Rhodes_ of all people. Especially since he's going to die.

* * *

It's the same every night. Lydia runs through her routine – cleanse, moisturize, lay out three options for tomorrow's ensemble – and turns in for the night. Before well, _everything_ Lydia would have an approximate seven hours of beauty sleep before waking exactly two minutes before her alarm and starting her day. But now that werewolves and darachs and banshees are real, Lydia is lucky to rest at all. Because even though she sleeps – still that approximate seven hours– she dreams of death.

The first time it happened, Lydia hadn't thought anything of it. Nightmares are an appropriate response to trauma. Dreaming of her neighbor Mrs. Brinkley's death was a little strange, sure, but _life_ is strange. So she applied her makeup, curled her hair, and dressed to impress.

When her mother informed her that the police were outside of the Brinkley house - that the cleaning lady had found the missus on the floor, it was a heart attack, and isn't that just a shame? – Lydia did not scream. She did not drop her cup of coffee, or cry, or skip school.

Lydia Martin does not freak out. She does not get scared. She has her shit on lock, _thankyouverymuch_. Martin women can handle things. Calm, capable, beautiful Martins. Never mind her grandmother, who died in a mental institution. Never mind her sister, who left nothing but a note behind that said _I'm sorry, I can't pretend anymore_. Never mind her mother, who cries over a man who never loved her.

Calm. Capable. Beautiful. _Martins_.

Lydia goes to Mrs. Brinkley's wake because it's expected. She tells no one about her dream, because in it Mrs. Brinkley had not died of a heart attack. Oh, no. In Lydia's dream, she was killed.

And just last night, Lydia dreamt of Conner Rhodes. _Her cousin's boyfriend._

* * *

Ivy excuses herself quickly, a little teary-eyed from her fight with Lydia. She's like her mom that way – can't raise her voice without crying. It's not like she feels bad for losing her temper because she _doesn't_. She's just frustrated, and maybe a little embarrassed because there's no way Lydia's friends missed their little spat.

Ivy scuttles up the stairs and makes eye contact with exactly _no one_ and draws herself a hot bath because she deserves it. (Not to mention her legs are absolutely _killing_ her from this afternoon's run. Six miles through uneven terrain? _Ouch_.)

Ivy undresses, lights her favorite candle, and settles into the water with a sigh. _The Paper Kites_ ' lilting melodies play from a Bluetooth speaker on the countertop, and Ivy resolves not to move until her skin prunes or the water turns cold.

Ivy doesn't sleep well that night. She hears Lydia in the next room tossing and turning. Her cousin is a fitful sleeper; Ivy knows that much. Sometimes Lydia talks in her sleep. Nothing coherent but it's loud and frequent, and most nights wakes Ivy up. She never mentions it – not to Lydia, or Aunt Nat, or even her mom. Because Ivy knows about what happened to her cousin last year. How Lydia was attacked and went missing. Nightmares are a natural response to trauma, and it's none of Ivy's business anyway. Lord knows she'd hate it if Lydia said anything about her late night jogs – how sometimes Ivy can't breathe in this damn house and needs to _go, get out, just_ _ **run**_.

Ivy tries not to think about running away being a family trait.

She's dressed and out the door before Lydia's alarm goes off, and leaves behind freshly brewed coffee as an apology. Ivy still doesn't think she way wrong but she hates confrontation almost as much as she hates Beacon Hills.

On the fridge is a note from Ivy's mom telling the house she's working a double and won't be home until tonight. Ivy's stomach burns with something that isn't quite anger. She pushes the feeling away because there's a history test first period and she can't afford to be distracted.

Ivy's car is a '96 Ford Bronco that belonged to her father. It smells like the treatment oils she uses on the cracked leather seats and sweet perfume. On the dashboard are a few solar-powered figurines that dance and splotches of white paint from a spill that happened long before Ivy was born. In the glove compartment is a sleeve of CD mixes since the car was made long before smartphones, and a new sound system is too expensive for her to get installed. Ivy loves this car. It makes her feel safe and closer to her dad, whom she is so far from since his grave is back in Oregon and she is _not_.

Ivy's trying not to be bitter about things, really.

She takes the scenic route to school and parks at the very back of the empty lot. It's drizzling today which only dampens her mood. Ivy would rather it just pour and get it over with. They could use a break from the damn humidity anyway.

School doesn't start for another hour and Ivy's mixes just aren't cutting it. There's only so many times you can listen to the same songs without going out of your mind, so she turns on the radio and closes her eyes.

" _Early this morning, joggers discovered the body of a high school student on the eastern trails in the Beacon Hill's Preserve. Police have identified the body as one Conner Rhodes, a senior at B.H. High. Though sheriff Stilinski has not confirmed Rhodes' death as a homicide, eye-witness accounts…"_

Ivy does not hear what the reporter says next. She does not hear anything but her own breathing, which is growing shorter by the moment.

Conner is dead, she thinks. Conner is dead but last night he was with her, and charming, and the best kisser she's ever met, and _alive_.

"Oh my god," she says. "Oh my god." Ivy throws her father's bronco in reverse.

The only other car in the parking lot is a blue Jeep, and in it is Stiles Stilinski – not that she notices. He watches as Ivy speeds away and brings his ringing phone to his ear.

"Hey Scotty," he says. "I think we've got a problem."

* * *

 **Author's Note**

*This fic takes place after season 3a and will include very little (if any) plotlines from seasons after. I'll be tweaking the timeline as well as some events from the show to fit the story. And also because I disagree with some things. (Side-eyes Allison's death.)

**Title from Roman poet Virgil. "Vires acquirit eundo : _It gains strength by going (or as it goes)_."

***Cover Image found on tumblr with no credit to photographer. If anyone knows where it is from, please link me so!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:**

Stiles is starting to think he has a type: smart, strawberry blonde, emotionally unavailable Martins.

Ivy is adjusting to the move as well as she can, though her cousin Lydia isn't exactly welcoming.

Scott just wants to keep everyone safe, even if that means teaming up with unlikely allies.

Allison's struggling to reform her family's archaic beliefs, especially in light of recent attacks.

Lydia wants her old life back – before werewolves and banshees and her mother's financial problems.

Will these teens make it out of Beacon Hills alive? Only time will tell.

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 _It takes and it takes and it takes…_

Conner Rhodes is buried on an overcast Thursday morning. In attendance are his parents, little brother Ben, his girlfriend Ivy, and the better half of Beacon Hills. Conner knows this – not because he is watching over them from some mystic cloud in the sky, but because he is there. Kind of.

(Can you ever truly _be_ somewhere if you don't have a body? He's still trying to figure that out.)

You see, Conner Rhodes did not believe in ghosts until he became one. He's not even sure if "ghost" is the right word for it, because aren't ghosts supposed to haunt something? As far as Conner can tell, there's nothing holding him in place. He just kind of… floats around. Mostly checks on his family but likes to pop into Ivy's room every now and then to look through her underwear drawer, because what else is there for a dead guy to do? And yes, it's creepy - but Ivy is hot, and his girlfriend, and being dead is _super_ fucking boring.

Sure he could probably like, investigate his murder or try to make contact, but Conner's trying not to dwell too much on being dead. In fact, he wouldn't have gone to his own funeral if the damn town hadn't made it such a damn spectacle. Conner was a likeable guy and all, but that doesn't mean his funeral deserves news coverage.

" _There will be a candlelight vigil tonight for Rhodes held at Beacon Hills High, going from six o'clock until eight. Please keep in mind the mandatory curfew of eight-thirty for all minors, which will be enforced by neighborhood watch groups as well as the sheriff's department. Everyone below the age of eighteen caught out past curfew will be escorted home and may face severe consequences. For any other information regarding the memorial service or curfew, head over to our website WWW dot Channel12News dot com. Back to you, Diana."_

Ivy knows it's stupid, and irrational, and probably (definitely) misdirected anger – but she really wants to punch that reporter in the face. Or maybe flip off the camera so their footage is useless. Either works for her. But hey, at least murder is good for ratings.

"Ives," says her mother while patting her shaking fist. "Calm down, sweetheart."

But she can't. Ivy feels ready to explode or bolt or – or cry, which she really doesn't want to do. Because even if she didn't love Conner (not yet, but almost) his death broke the heart he was helping her mend. All she keeps thinking is that _this isn't fair, Conner was good, was sweet, was_ _ **hers**_ _; why him_? But Ivy knows better than most there is no _why_. Death has no rhyme nor reason, it takes what it wants because it can. Her dad was in the army for twelve years without incident and died of an aneurysm on his flight home. Her grandmother was a brilliant mathematician who was institutionalized and shortly thereafter died before her algorithms could change the world. Death does not wait for the right time; it does not care for convenience. It leaves broken hearts in its wake; leaves _Ivy's_ heart broken in its wake, and god is she tired of it.

So Ivy does the only thing she's good at. She runs.

Conner's ghost follows.

X

The thing about watching your girlfriend have a panic attack is – well, is that it sucks. But Conner can't really do anything about it on account of him being, y'know, _dead_. So he slouches against her doorway (or mimes slouching since he isn't exactly corporal) and watches.

Ivy hasn't had an anxiety attack in years but her muscles remember. They tense as she heaves; limbs shaking, mouth open and gasping for air as she tucks herself into the corner of her room. Ivy curls her knees to her chest; is overwhelmed by the urge to be _small – take up less space – there's not enough room for her to_ _ **breathe**_. She feels eyes on her, though there's no one around. She feels like she's suffocating but nothing is restricting her airflow. She grows lightheaded quickly and her vision swims. She isn't getting enough air even though she's gasping for it. She feels like she's going to faint. She feels like she's going to _die_.

The attack doesn't last long, perhaps a few minutes, but it seems like an eternity. By the end of it Ivy is slumped over in exhaustion; clinging to the walls to stay upright. Conner enters her room fully and hovers beside her as she stumbles into bed. Ivy's streaked makeup stains her pillow but she can't bring herself to care.

Conner is dead, her mind whispers. Conner is _dead_.

"I'm sorry," she hiccups into the still air of her room. "I'm sorry, please come back."

Conner feels like his chest is going to cave in. He could have loved Ivy if they'd had the chance. He was so close to loving her, he could _taste_ it. She's everything he wanted.

"I'm sorry too," he whispers at her bedside; leaning over to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

But Conner's kiss does not land. Instead, Ivy feels a light breeze, something cold, and just like that she is asleep.

* * *

Later, once Conner's funeral service has ended, Lydia Martin peeks into her cousin's room and freezes. The hairs on Lydia's arms stand straight and the air in her lungs leaves in one cloudy _puff_. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

"Ivy?" Lydia whispers. The girl in question does not stir. Her cheeks are streaked with black lines of mascara and her eyes are swollen from crying. Something in Lydia aches for Ivy; an empathy she hasn't felt for her cousin since Uncle Kent died. Why had Lydia been so cruel to her these past few months? Why hadn't she told Ivy the truth – about Conner, about her, about all of it? Maybe Ivy would have been spared some of the pain she's feeling now.

Lydia does not allow herself to dwell in these thoughts for long. She can't change what happened; things are the way they are. What Lydia can change is the future – and she starts by turning on the light.

"Ivy," Lydia says, louder this time, and the feeling of dread disappears with Conner's ghost. "Ivy, get up. You've got to get ready for the vigil."

"What?" says Ivy, blinking awake. Her mouth is dry, eyes a bloodshot pink, and she looks so much younger than Lydia remembers.

She breezes over to Ivy's closet and begins rummaging through it. "Get in the shower and dry your hair," Lydia orders with a smack of her lips. "I'll help you get ready."

Ivy sits for a moment, completely still, and tries to muster up a fight. But Ivy is so _tired_ of fighting, and Lydia's being nice in the only way she knows how, so she listens.

"Okay."

Ivy stands under the scolding water until her skin turns pink. She can hear Lydia bustling around her room, muttering to herself about Ivy's significantly "lacking" wardrobe. A part of Ivy wants to question Lydia's motive, but a larger part is relieved. She can't face tonight's vigil alone. If Lydia is willing to help, even if it's just coordinating her outfit, Ivy won't turn her away.

She takes her time toweling off and drying her hair; hoping that maybe if she procrastinates long enough she'll miss the vigil altogether. Lydia, it seems, has other ideas.

"Ivy!" she demands; pounding at the door. "Hurry up! We have exactly thirteen things to do within the next four hours and there's no time to dillydally."

Ivy finds herself smiling; wondering who even uses the word 'dillydally' anymore. She remembers a time not so long ago when Lydia's sister would dress them up for family gatherings; the three girls giggling all the while. Estee used to call them little dolls, tie their hair with ribbons and steal their grandmother's lipstick. Things were so different then – so _good_. But then Nana died, Estee ran away, and Ivy's dad…

It all went to shit so quickly it's a wonder they didn't come out of it with whiplash.

"I'm done," Ivy says while opening the door.

Lydia crosses her arms and eyes her from head to toe. "Oh, not even close."

x

Patrolling Beacon Hills is Erica's favorite part of being a werewolf – besides the whole pack business. There's something to be said about walking the trails; adrenaline pumping, talons out - just waiting for the opportunity to kick some ass. Derek's even allowed her to patrol by herself while Isaac and Jackson still need to buddy-up. Boyd got out of patrol because of his new job at some rundown gym because he sucks, but Erica's not letting that bother her tonight. Oh no – she's ready for a fight.

Erica just didn't expect it to jump out at her so quickly.

Pain blooms from the apple of her cheek where the creature's elbow landed a hit, and she hisses out a curse between clenched fangs. "That," she growls, "is no way to treat a lady."

Erica's eyes strain to trail her assailant – it's that fast. Excitement burns in her veins as she crouches; teeth bared and ready for blood. She _knows_ she should howl, call for help; but this is a chance to prove her worth. Erica wants this fight; she's been itching for it since that kid showed up dead on _her_ pack's territory.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," she singsongs as the creature darts between trees.

It releases a high-pitched whine that makes Erica's skin crawl. The thing – whatever it is – sounds inhuman. And – ew, gross, fuck – _looks_ inhuman. It towers over her by approximately three feet and looks to be nothing but flaky skin and bone. Its eyes, large and icy blue, dart all around the forest as if in search of something.

"What are you?" Erica mumbles in wonder. It smells rotten, like week-old garbage, and Erica can't hear its heartbeat which is _weird_.

Yeah, she should definitely call for backup.

Just as Erica's about to howl it lunges – who backflips for style, _obviously_ \- long arms swiping at the space her head just occupied. It screams in rage when she sinks her claws into its thigh and _rips_ ; shredding sinew and its flaking skin. Blood spurts from the wound and lands on her face and blouse, but there's something about the blood that feels _wrong_. It's cold, gel-like – as if it's been sitting for a while - and _ick_. That better not leave a stain.

Erica shakes out her hands as she hops a few steps back; hating the feeling of that thing's blood beneath her claws. Erica waits for it to come at her so she can use the momentum against it. She uses the same tactic against Boyd, who is a brick wall disguising itself as a hot boy.

"Okay, ugly. Let's see what you got."

They parry for longer than Erica anticipates. It's fast, faster than her, but she's stronger. Not by much but enough to have the upper hand. She'll kill it quick but keep it in one piece so the creepy vet can identify its particular brand of monster. Maybe she can mount its head when all is said and done; hang it on her wall between some boyband posters and the creepy family portrait she found at a tag sale some-odd weeks ago. She'll have to ask for a plaque for her birthday: _Erica's first kill_.

The sound of struggle attracts Erica's pack, and they arrive on scene just as she delivers a fatal blow. The creature whines, high-pitched and terrible, as it falls to the forest floor.

" _Jesus_ ," says Isaac. "What the hell is that?"

"I don't know." Erica is bent over, clutching at her chest and panting as Jackson and Isaac sniff around the body.

"Whatever it is," Jackson sneers, "it's one ugly fuck."

"You've got that right."

"Think it killed that kid – Ivy's boyfriend?"

Erica shrugs. "Maybe. We should probably call Derek, huh?" The fight is out of her now. Erica's hands shake as she leans against Isaac, seeking comfort. That thing – whatever it was – put up one hell of a fight. Erica may be the one still standing, but it managed to slash her gut wide open.

"You okay?" Isaac asks, pulling her under his arm and nuzzling the side of her head. Erica smells like blood, sweat, and something sour – like she's sick.

"Fine," she says but her legs sway under her weight. Erica's tongue feels heavy in her mouth, almost as heavy as her eyelids. She leans more heavily on Isaac and she heaves – chucking up the turkey sandwich Boyd made them for lunch.

"Erica?" Isaac lowers her to the ground and that sour smell grows stronger. "Erica!" She's seizing now – something that hasn't happened in so very long – and it scares the crap out of him. The wound on her stomach isn't closing as quickly as it should; in fact, it's turning black at the edges. Something's wrong. Something is very, _very_ wrong.

"Isaac," Erica pants. She's struggling to stay conscious now and her forehead has broken out into a sweat. "Help me."

Somewhere in the distance, wolves howl.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed! Please continue to give feedback as it keeps me motivated to write. For those of you who were wondering, Ivy's faceclaim is Willa Fitzgerald (who is hearteyes5ever, basically).

Also! I was wondering if anyone would be interested in beta-ing this story. I'd like someone with experience - writing, editing, or both. Please let me know if you're interested!

-Jackieoh


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